


Errand Boy

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Arthur's having some trouble, Background Relationships, Domestic Disputes, Friendship, Gen, Sexism, Slice of Life, Sort Of, go easy on the poor bastard, he means well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 10:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17445257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Eliza sends Arthur to get her something from the pharmacy. Arthur tries his best.





	Errand Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly... what is this. Why do I only get inspiration for things nobody asked for? xD

One of the guys. That’s what Eliza has always been. She was the classic tomboy as a kid: scraped knees, dirty nails, hair messily pulled back or shoved under a baseball cap. She’s changed since then—her knees are unscraped and her nails are kempt—and though she’s left behind the title of tomboy, she happily remains one of the guys. The majority of her friends are men, after all, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

They’re vastly useful, for starters. Gilbert—the one she’d be most inclined to call a _best friend_ if this was still middle school—is excellent for reaching high-up places. Antonio is always willing to lift up things so she can clean under them, even if his back will be mysteriously sore the next day. Francis, a fellow bisexual and general diva, never fails to provide constructive criticism on fashion choices (and he’s better at braiding than she is, so his deft fingers are frequently called to action). And all three of them are good for a more grim purpose: whether her fear is misplaced or not, she always feels safer walking home after dark if she has one of her boys beside her.

The latest addition to the group is Arthur. She’s reluctant to include partners into the friend group without a bit of light hazing. ( _It’s not a fraternity,_ Francis laughs.) Antonio has been with his boyfriend for almost three years, so she considers Lovino one of their circle. Gilbert has yet to tie anyone down. ( _Quality over quantity, Liz._ ) And Francis has been with so many boys, girls, and those betwixt that for a while it seemed like she was being introduced to a different person every time they went somewhere. But Arthur has stuck for five months. He’s a rather private, flighty person but never outright rude; the only off thing about him is his passionately punk presentation. And Eliza doesn’t really mind that—to each his own, and all. Mostly she’s surprised that Francis hasn’t tried to force Arthur into something that isn’t black. But if they can stay together through it, despite their differences— _just a phase,_ Francis has assured her—they must be in love.

So Eliza invites Arthur over one afternoon, to get to know him a bit better without the distraction of the other guys. She didn’t plan on doing something to test what sort of person he is, but Fate has its ways.

  


He has honestly wondered if he might have gynophobia.

The fear part, not the dislike part. He’s never been sexist, at least never on purpose. He just has never really been _around_ women. He grew up with his dad, uncles, and brothers. Any women they snagged were fleeting at best and violent at worst. More than one night he was kept awake by barely hushed swearing matches and the crash of broken dishware. Granted, it probably wasn’t entirely the fault of the women. His family have never been easy to get along with. But he thinks that must have contributed to his current mindset. Not that women are bad, just that . . . well, put it this way: when he realized he was gay, it was a relief.

They stress him out. They’re always so nicely dressed and eloquently spoken. They know how to talk about feelings. They’re allowed to cry. And you never know if they might be pregnant or just overweight. They’re like walking traps for his social anxiety to trip him into. He’s barely figured out how to have a conversation with men, let alone with women. _It’s really no different,_ Francis told him when he fretted last night. But it is different, for him. _Why?_ It just is!

Going to Eliza’s apartment for afternoon tea is nerve-wracking. He only agreed after pressure from his boyfriend. _You talked to her when we got pizza last week. It’s the same thing, Arthur._ But he had others to save him, then. Now it’s just him and his daft mouth, which has never saved him and in fact has gotten him tangled up in nearly all the trouble he’s ever been in.

She has a nice smile. And nice hair. Nice eyes. Nice clothes. Her apartment smells like vanilla. Even her couch cushions are nice. He wishes she had crumbs on the table or a pile of mismatched boots near the door, like he does.

They have their tea. She asks him about his favorite bands. He asks about hers and tries his best to listen. She asks about his car, he tells her the story of when the passenger window got stuck down. Her phone goes off halfway through, so he stumbles over a couple sentences while she looks at the screen. _Sorry, I was putting it on vibrate. Go on._ But he pretends not to remember where he was and their chatting stalls into contemplative silence.

When she excuses herself to the bathroom, he sinks back into the sofa. God. How has he managed to go through life without having at least one female friend? Well, the all-boys school. And the fact that most of the girls in Hot Topic are interested in other girls. Eliza doesn’t seem to have any similar interests with him, but then again Francis doesn’t really either and they get along well enough . . . in a love-biting, hip-bruising, whoever-comes-last-wins-the-argument kind of way. And it’s not like he _hates_ Eliza. On the contrary, he thinks she’s a really nice girl. If he had to choose between being trapped on a deserted island with her or Antonio, he’d pick her in a heartbeat. He just wishes he could talk to her without being an idiot.

“Hey, Arthur?”

“Uh.” It feels bizarrely intimate to talk to someone through a bathroom door. “Yeah?”

“I hate to ask you this, but do you think you could run down to the pharmacy for me?”

How very sitcom. He didn’t realize this actually happened in real life, but he supposes all cliches are based in some truth. “I guess so . . .”

“Thanks. I need pads. I’ll pay you back, of course. Always Maxi.”

He has no idea what that last bit means. It could be a Latin wish of strength between ancient warriors, for all he knows. But staying put isn’t an option—does this count as an emergency? it feels like one—so he hurries out.

The pharmacy is only a few blocks away. He avoids the gaze of everyone he passes. Do they sense what his mission is? A sudden realization: have Francis and Antonio done this? Has _Gilbert_ done this? He can’t picture it. Then again, he can’t picture himself doing it either, and here he is.

Two youths are sitting on the brick windowsill of the pharmacy, licking ice creams. He’s unspeakably tempted to give them the money and send them in. Can children even buy menstrual products? Is there an age limit on them, like controversial CDs and fireworks? Tampons can kill you, can’t they?

Inside. Overhead, a female country singer sings about being a female country singer. An old man pays for a prescription. Two auntish types develop photographs on a machine in the corner. He’s been in here before, for aspirin and condoms—which seems pretty telling of his personality, now that he thinks about it. He wonders if there’s someone out there analyzing his purchase data. What will they think, after today? This is the sort of outlier that would drive scientists mad, surely.

The aisle is an abstract painting of color. He stands in front of the gaudy wall, trying to remember what Eliza said. _Always_ describes half of the merchandise on offer. He takes out his phone, texts Eliza for specification. It occurs to him that he has never looked more heterosexual. He waits. And waits.

A young lady turns into the aisle. He scuttles to the condoms, where it’s safe. Five minutes, seven minutes. He recalls the last place he saw Eliza’s phone: the coffee table. Could she somehow get to it without . . . you know . . . making a mess? Even if she could, though, it’s on vibrate. On the other side of the bathroom door, she probably can’t hear it.

What would be more humiliating, he wonders, going back to the apartment to ask her or trying to guess which she wants? He gathers courage and returns to the aisle. Empty, thankfully. Can he flag down a female employee? Just thinking about it makes his face burn. Alright. Perhaps he can solve this with logic. Think like Sherlock. He scans the labels. Maxi, mini, overnight. Pantiliners? She said pads, didn’t she? Is there a difference? He ignores the pantiliners. Presumably overnight can be struck. Maxi sounds familiar. That could be what she said. Cautiously, he selects a package.

_Always Maxi Size 1 Regular Pads with Wings Unscented._

Bloody hell. He feels like he’s buying a cruise missile. What do they need _wings_ for?

“’Scuse me, Miss.”

What if she didn’t say Maxi, though? Well, he supposes, too much is better than not enough. Like condoms. Too big and they’ll fall off, but that’s usually less of a disaster than when they break.

A tap on his shoulder. He whirls.

Straight White Male smiles sheepishly at him. “Sorry. My niece sent me here. First time. I dunno what I’m doing. Do you know which of these is for, uh, heavy flow?”

Oh God.

Arthur studies the two boxes. Don’t panic. Tampax Radiant Super, and Radiant Super Plus. He uses the condom logic and points to the Super Plus. Is this really a decision he should be entrusted with?

A grateful smile. “Cool. Thanks. She’s staying with me for the summer, so I guess I better learn this stuff.”

How heartwarming. And admirable. He doesn’t really fancy being the stereotypical man who can’t buy a feminine product without breaking out in cold sweat. How many trans activists has he heard decrying the association of femininity with periods? They’re just a fact of life. But they’ve never been a fact of _his_ life. Until now. He never realized what a sheltered affair his existence has been.

“Do you recommend those?”

Arthur blinks.

The man nods to the package of pads. “Are those better than these? My niece is just twelve, so she’s still trying stuff out. She said her friend uses these.”

 _Twelve?_ Good grief. Imagine, you’re a child and then it’s once a month for the rest of your life. No, until menopause. But still. What a money pit. No wonder he’s seen petitions for free pads. The only time women get a break is when they’re pregnant, and that’s certainly no holiday inn if those teen mom shows are anything to go by.

But look at this poor man in his tartan shirt. Arthur shakes his head. How can he possibly endorse anything in this aisle? “I don’t need these.”

The man studies him for a skin-crawling moment; then his eyes go wide and he says, “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realize. No, I know how it is. Well, I don’t _know,_ but—I’ve seen some stuff on TV. Like that show with the Jazz girl? My niece loves her. I don’t have anything against it, is what I’m trying to say.”

Arthur embodies a deer in headlights.

“Are those for your girlfriend?” the man asks—with a gentle, avuncular vibe, to his credit.

At which point Arthur realizes it’s the middle of summer and he’s wearing a femme gothic shirt, skinny jeans, combat boots, nail polish, earrings, eyeliner—and his hair is streaked with black and red.

Oh, how the trans gals at Pride would laugh.

What is he going to do? Say no, actually, he’s a gay cis man who just happens to dress like a vampire and he’s on this errand for a girl who isn’t his girlfriend, just a friend who happens to be a girl, and for that matter she’s more of a friend of his friends, one of which is his boyfriend even if they are all friends who happen to be boys?

Of course not.

He smiles vaguely and nods, trying his best not to have a heart attack. He blushes like he has never blushed before.

“Well, I hope you two have a good day,” says the uncle. “Anyways, thanks for the help.”

Off he goes, with the assurance of someone who has never over-thought something in his life.

Arthur wanders in the back of the pharmacy, because he can’t go out there until the man has left, lest another conversation start up. He finds a mirror next to a display of reading glasses and tries on a pair so he has an excuse to look at himself. The world blurs; he lowers the glasses down on his nose. Does he really look like a woman? Not even a woman, apparently, a trans woman. Then again, he wasn’t faux-clocked until he claimed to not need pads. Does that mean he passes as a girl?

He scrutinizes his face. Roundish, but not to the point of babylike. His jawline is pretty soft, but it’s always been like that. Antonio once called him a chinless wonder when he was drunk, then said he couldn’t remember it when Francis called him out the next day. His lips are thin, don’t women have fuller lips? His art professor said he had a snub nose, also known as a _celestial nose_ which Arthur thought sounded quite nice—until he went on to say it’s the nose most popular among female celebrities so in a way it’s the least classic nose possible. (All the boys with Roman noses wound up sticking them right up the professor’s arse.) As for the eyebrows, well, what woman would walk around without getting those plucked or shaved or whatever women do?

 _A lesbian, probably,_ he thinks. The psuedo-butch sort of lesbian he apparently passes for. God. He can’t believe Francis hasn’t told him this. He must know, he knows everything. Or has he told him subtly? He calls him _chérie_ all the time, isn’t what a feminine word? Then again, _toilette_ is feminine so who knows with that language.

What a thin line it is, then, between male and female. He’s too used to being introduced to LGBTQ people with their names and pronouns upfront; he’s never really thought about how many are hidden in plain sight, passing or closeted. You never know who you’re talking to, it occurs to him, and it rarely matters. So perhaps Francis is right. It’s no different.

_Huh._

He won’t mention it. Francis has enough ego as it is.

The thought of his smug boyfriend does remind him that they need lube. There’s never anybody over here. He pictures a straight girl trying to experiment asking a gay guy if water-based or silicone-based is better. He could certainly help her out. _Silicone for shower sex. Water’s less clean-up but you’ll use more. And for God’s sake, don’t drip silicone stuff on the floor. You’ll break your neck._

Eliza is still waiting.

_Eejit._

He hurries to the register. She doesn’t even blink at the two items he places on the counter. What power pharmacy workers could wield, with all their knowledge. But—is she smiling to herself? Why? Or is he seeing things?

Paranoid, he taps his card and makes a beeline for the door. The bag is white paper and opaque; it reminds him of the black plastic bags the sex shops use. At this point he wouldn’t care if he had to walk back with the package balanced on his head. He made it out alive and only blushed twice. He considers that a success.

  


Eliza sighs when she hears the door open. Footsteps hesitate outside the bathroom door. “Just throw it in.”

The door opens just enough to fit the package, which bounces off the wall with considerable force. She laughs. “I didn’t mean throw it _that_ hard but thanks.”

“Sorry.” A pause. “Is that the right kind?”

“Yup. Good job,” she adds, since he sounds so meek and he seems like the kind of person who responds best to positive reinforcement. (She admits to a habit of thinking of her boys as dogs. Nothing wrong with dogs, of course; she’d have one if the landlord would let her.)

A few minutes later, she finds Arthur reconsidering his life on the sofa. He looks up at her—she makes a mental note to ask him for eyeliner lessons—and asks, “Do lesbians use lube?”

She blinks. “Sure. For dildos. And, you know. The same reason you use lube, if they’re into that. Why?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t go back into that pharmacy now.”

She laughs, plopping down beside him. “That’s what Gil said, the first time. But he got over it.”

Arthur glances at her. She looks at the space between them, or lack thereof. “Sorry. Too close?”

“Eh.” For the first time, he gives her one of his self-deprecatingly crooked smiles. “I’ll get over it.”

  
  


_The End._


End file.
